


Bite Me

by bangbangbatarang



Category: Deus Ex: Human Revolution
Genre: AU where the real crisis is Frank habitually skipping meals, Canon Divergence, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Malik ships it, Very OOC, implied/referenced eating disorder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-27 23:30:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20054323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bangbangbatarang/pseuds/bangbangbatarang
Summary: Please feed the hacker.





	Bite Me

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to PallasCat and CasieMod for beta reading and being wonderfully encouraging! You two are the real MVPs.
> 
> Welcome to the body image edition of the goings-on of SI HQ’s finest guys. My birthday present to myself is posting yet another multi-chapter WIP while dawdling over my other multi-chapter WIPs because you can't teach an old dog new tricks.

Throughout his employ and before, Frank Pritchard had amassed many synonyms for _ thin _. He wore the bulk of them like a second skin, unperturbed by the implications that underlined their frequency: a comment here, a criticism there, didn’t wear at him as they once had; office gossip, in all its banality, no longer ate at him. He loathed to have people talking about him behind his back, though at least it had nothing to do with his ability to do his goddamn job. 

Of all the traits he lacked—he had a list of those, too: innumerable vices and few discernible virtues—least worrying was his capacity to give a damn when some well-meaning moron or tactless imbecile called him 

_ Gaunt. Lanky. Gangly. _

He was insulated against undertones, both of insult and interest— 

_ Rangy. Wiry. Scrawny. _

He was immune to sugar-coated questions about his wellbeing— 

_ Malnourished. Anaemic. Underfed. _

He was inoculated by the wide berth he received during bad weeks when he neglected to leave the office or refill his prescription— 

_ Consumptive. Tubercular. Bubonic _ _ . _

He was inured to occasionally passing out on the Tech Lab couch, unable to be roused except by the onsite nurse bearing smelling salts— 

_ Emaciated. Starved. Cadaverous. _

Malik had dubbed him an _elegant wastrel_ one dreaded end of year party, the moniker shouted with a wolf whistle through semicircles of revellers in place of his name. Preferable to having fries flicked his way across the cafeteria, though only by a slim margin. 

“Someone’s dressed to impress.” She gestured to the houndstooth suit he’d dug from the depths of his closet, taking in his partway-buttoned shirt with hands on her hips and a grin of approval. 

Frank pointedly kept his gaze off her navel-grazing neckline: it stood to reason her sternum would be pierced as well, flashes of golden topaz catching the light of electric candelabras. “The brief was black tie. I see you didn’t get the memo.” 

“All I own are jumpsuits of one variation or another,” she shrugged, throwing an arm over his shoulder to snatch a flute from a passing tray. Those stilettos had her rivalling him in height, a fact she was patently taking advantage of along with the open bar. “Seriously, though,” she said after a healthy sip, “You scrub up like a new man, _ Francis_.” 

He glowered. He got enough of that from the new guy: he didn’t need it catching on with the rest of the plebs. 

Naturally Malik found his distaste amusing, pinching his clean-shaven cheek as if he were a child rather than her senior by years. Sometimes he wondered why she was the only person around these parts who was permitted to tread all over his personal space—a rare exception to his status as a bona fide antisocialite—and in turn the only co-worker he’d yet to pull rank on. Probably because she was an effective bully in her own right, and when a woman like Faridah Malik came into your life, you had no choice but to make room for her. 

“There’s that look that could kill.” She tapped her champagne to the tip of his nose. “Don’t spoil the fact that you’re actually presentable.” 

He’d made an effort at the boss’ behest, knowing full well no-one expected him to show up. People were prone to pathologising the outliers, writing off those who didn’t fit in as flawed; categorising those on the borders as irredeemable, endlessly scrutinising the individuals who sat on the fringes; prioritising image over the rest. That kind of shit had rubbed him the wrong way when he was a weedy youth whose arms and legs were as clumsy as they were spindly; when he’d spent such limited time in meat space that he didn’t have much on his bones. When he’d yet to identify society’s obsession with the aesthetic as a commercialised method of crowd control, an addictive distraction, a diversion from looking too closely at the bigger picture. 

Still, he imagined it must be hard to examine beyond the surface-level when those he rubbed shoulders with had so little goddamned depth. While bio-engineers and scientists were brought on for their ruthless ingenuity, SI’s front of house and press darling HQ staffers were recruited to be easy on the eye: all the better to model the latest line of augments, and likely why Frank, with his discreet implants and sickly disposition, was tucked away in a frosted glass nook at the end of a hall. No need to scare prospective investors away by advertising the effects of irregular neuropozyne usage and chronic sleep disturbances on the backbone of the business; sallow former felons didn’t gel with Sarif’s cutting edge, luxury branding. 

“I’m full of surprises,” Frank said, regretting the decision to make an appearance here already. 

Another toast connected with his nose. “Damn straight, handsome.” Talkative, teasing him as usual—“Even without the wallet chain, you’re so yankable”—and already tipsy. 

What were friends for? 

Their requisite portion of people watching—fodder for later, or _data harvesting_ as he considered it—passed without incident and without anyone drifting nearer to the pair of them. David was holding court over his excitable subordinates, who were relishing in a lecture about prestige cuvées with vintages from the turn of the century; Cindy the receptionist was double-fisting cosmopolitans; an oily marketing intern caroused the crowd as if he weren’t well beneath the legal drinking age; oh, right, that was Megan Reed letting her hair down. Suitably inane to remind him why he never attended these events, until he caught sight of a lone figure making a beeline for the bar. 

He would have booked it if his feet weren’t stuck where he stood, instead stealing Malik’s drink for himself to wash down his nerves, because Jensen got on every last one. Bastard would probably look impeccable clad in cardboard, but in a tux… 

Malik saw where he was staring and gave him a devious grin: always quick on the uptake, and even quicker to make things difficult for him. “Don’t you dare,” he managed, too little too late. Went to extricate himself and locate a corner to hide in but Faridah, damn her, was too fast. 

“Hey, Security Dude! Check out our favourite tech.” 

Jensen, ostensibly off the clock but moving as if he were on a mission, lost a step to turn on the spot, eyes flashing near imperceptibly when they found his. A jolt of recognition as they narrowed; a tick at the corner of lips, turning into a smirk that seemed uncomfortably close to a smile. 

He wasn’t in the mood for this: put the two of them in a room together and it was likely to devolve into nonsense so toxic it would draw or scatter a crowd. Such encounters were becoming infamous amongst the busybodies whose existence he was forced to endure; variously referred to as _ butting heads _ or _ pathological one-upmanship _ or _ never-ending pissing contests. _

The other man’s chosen method of bothering him was an infuriating, impassive machismo, the kind that made Frank respond with displays of masculinity so performative and fragile that they’d shatter should they be so much as interrogated. It was enough to make him hate himself for who he was when cut down to size. 

“I wouldn’t say he’s _ my _ favourite,” Jensen announced on sauntering over, with an expression that spoke to something not as hostile as anticipated. Even had the audacity to wink at Malik and add, “Definitely in the top-ten, though.” 

Frank’s mouth thankfully drew into a line rather than falling slack. Not the reaction he’d factored in, and no chance for a comeback, either. Not when Jensen was busy following the angles Frank’s jacket clung to, eyes stroking up the line of his neck as if it were an extension of what he was wearing; appraising him as if he were the real fresh meat rather than the haggard head of a whole department, gaze leaving a flush wherever it landed. A slow head-to-toe that had him bracing for a slight, while hoping for a compliment. 

_ Fat chance, Francis_. All he ever got was mockery of one kind or another, and flirting with him to unnerve him was likely Jensen’s latest game: a veritable visual feel up that could be explained away by the colour dusting that long nose and high cheekbones. 

Like so many who’d come before Jensen had made the mistake of underestimating him, classing him as oblivious to social cues; _ emotionally unintelligent_. Just because he used them infrequently didn’t render the soft-skills of his past exploits useless, the confidence tricks he deployed to slither through premises and firewalls just as valuable as his multilingual coding abilities. 

The best defence was an attack, so that’s exactly the course of action he took. 

“I didn’t think you went in for festivities, Jensen,” he sneered, glass dangled by the slim of its stem. “Was the promise of free booze too compelling to pass up, or was it just the prospect of seeing Doctor Reed snub some poor fool’s advances?” 

Workplace politics were more complicated than who was screwing who and who looked good while flaunting the rules against fraternising, but when it came to workplace relationships David played favourites like no-one else. Beyond the good looks, Reed’s influence was the only conceivable reason such an occupational hazard would be brought on board. Honestly, it leant credence to Frank’s belief that B-average, run-of-the-mill jocks had the world handed to them on a silver platter, and as such was his _ prerogative _to pick at that paradigm until it was seen for what it was: privilege for the mediocre in place of the exceptional. 

The comment had hit a raw point, Malik’s elbow digging uncomfortably into his ribs and those in their immediate vicinity growing quiet in their conversations. The other man brushed the comment off rather than confront it, and essentially confirmed it. Lifted his chin in the pilot’s direction, yet to address Frank in place of her. “Keep him near the canapés, Malik. I’m not carrying his lightweight ass out of here when you get him legless.” 

Glorified mall cop went off to do whatever he was wont to do: loom, lurk, brood, repeat. Growl instructions at the guards to remind them just who was in charge. Get up close and personal with a pocket flask, seasoned problem drinker that he was. So like Sarif to favour a handsome alcoholic with a bleeding, broken heart; to hire eye-candy with an open-carried sidearm and poor impulse control. 

“I think he likes you.” Malik watched Jensen go, while Frank watched bubbles rising and bursting on the surface of the Dom Pérignon. Perhaps a party was when he should pull his punches. “Typical Pritchard move: scare off everyone when an opportunity to be sociable presents itself.” 

And didn’t Jensen present himself so very well, no tremors nor staggering nor irritability beyond what Frank eked out of him in the day-to-day, the only substantive tell of this _ issue _ prior to this evening the cocktail of thiamine supplements and effervescent tablets Jensen consumed on the sly. Well-groomed and presented no matter the occasion; barely breaking a sweat or losing breath when his presence was requested while the lifts were out of order. Only Jensen could look artfully dishevelled from taking the stairs, and maintain unparalleled athleticism while drinking himself to an early grave. 

“I hate you.” Frank tipped the drink back, downing it in one. If he was going to hang around he might as well make the most of it. “Let’s get legless.” 

“He said he wasn’t gonna carry you, Pritch,” Malik stepped away to goad him, hands planted once more on her hips at his change of heart. 

Ever the contrarian, he wouldn’t turn his nose up at a chance to prove the masses wrong. “I’ll survive.” 

**Author's Note:**

> These characters deserve better than me projecting stuff on them, and Frank is much too capable to forever be a vessel for my bullshit.
> 
> Will I stop? Probably not.
> 
> Rating will change, tags will be added, ah shit, here we go again.


End file.
